A Pack of Light

THE APOLOGY VISIT

Episode 10: The Apology Visit

Isabelle's POV

The knock came just before midnight.

I had already changed into my softest cotton sweater, one with slightly frayed cuffs and sleeves long enough to tuck into my palms. The apartment was quiet—lights dim, kettle washed and flipped on the drying rack, my wig resting beside the lamp where I usually left it to breathe.

The knock was gentle at first. Almost unsure.

I froze. Not out of fear, but instinct. No one ever knocked this late unless something was wrong.

When the second knock came, firmer, I padded silently toward the door and peeked through the peephole. And there he was.

Marco.

Chamomile tea was the first thing I noticed. The steam curling from the mouth of a small paper bag he cradled in his arms like an offering.

I stood there a moment longer. I could’ve walked away. Pretended I was asleep. But the guilt in his eyes—not pity, guilt—made my fingers reach for the wig on the side table. My scalp was cold, freshly cleaned, and I adjusted the strands with practiced gentleness. I still hated the weight of it, the way it felt like wearing someone else's story.

I cracked the door.

“It’s late,” I said.

“I know,” Marco replied, his voice low and careful. “I couldn’t sleep. I just… I wanted to talk. Can I come in?”

He looked more boy than man. Exhausted, nervous, sheepish. No grand bravado. No cocky smile.

Just a boy with tea in his hands.

I didn’t answer. Just stepped aside.

Marco walked in quietly, eyes sweeping over the apartment like it held secrets he hadn’t been privy to before. It probably did. The rooms looked different when you knew what silence really meant.

“I brought chamomile,” he said, holding out the bag. “I remembered it helps you sleep.”

I took it from him without comment and moved toward the kitchen. The routine of boiling water gave my hands something to do. Something to focus on besides the memories that seeing him stirred up.

I returned with two mugs, steam fogging our vision slightly as I set them on the coffee table. Marco accepted his with both hands.

We sipped in silence for a while. Then he set his cup down.

“I want to apologize,” he began. “For how I acted at the fair. It was… childish. I got jealous, and I shouldn’t have. I let my feelings get the best of me.”

I tilted my head. “Feelings?”

He laughed nervously. “Yeah. I… I care about you, Isabelle. I’ve always cared. But when I saw you pulling away lately, I didn’t know how to handle it. I guess I thought… if I showed you how much I was still here, you’d come back.”

“Come back where?” I asked.

He looked up. “To me.”

I exhaled slowly, holding my mug tight. “Marco, we were never together.”

He opened his mouth, but I raised a hand.

“You flirted. I smiled. That’s it. You wanted more. I didn’t. That’s not rejection. That’s honesty.”

His shoulders sagged. “I know. I just… it’s hard watching you go through this and not being able to help.”

“You weren’t there, Marco,” I said flatly. “When I was admitted, when my hair started falling out, when I couldn't get up from the bed without vomiting—I waited. I waited for your texts, your visits. You told me you’d always be around. I believed that. Foolishly.”

“I had finals,” he said, almost defensive. “I was drowning in coursework. I barely slept.”

“I was fighting for my life.”

His mouth shut.

“I don’t want you to feel guilty. But I also won’t pretend it didn’t hurt,” I said quietly. “You talk about doing it all for ‘our future.’ You never asked if I wanted that future.”

He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

There was a pause. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It’s already past midnight. I should probably go.”

He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. I walked him to the door out of habit.

“Before I go,” he said, hesitating, “can I just—?”

He leaned in and hugged me. Long. Too long.

His arms wrapped around my waist and held me tighter than the situation called for. My body stiffened. I didn’t return the hug.

“You still have a great body,” he murmured near my ear.

I pulled back immediately. “Marco.”

“What?” he asked, hands up. “It was a compliment.”

“No. That was a boundary.”

He blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

But he had.

I turned the knob and opened the door for him to leave. “Goodnight.”

As he stepped out, his eyes caught a plastic bag sitting beside the bin near the doorway. Without asking, he reached in and picked up a bonnet.

“Are these yours?” he asked, curious. “You’re throwing them away?”

“Yeah,” I said simply.

“You used to wear these all the time,” he said, smiling faintly. “I thought they were kind of your thing. They looked cute on you.”

I crossed my arms.

“I wore them because my hair was falling out. I wore them to hide it. Not because they were cute.”

His expression shifted. Confused. Then embarrassed.

“But your hair’s fine now, right?”

“Why?” I asked softly. “Would you be disgusted if I said it’s not? If I told you this was a wig?”

He said nothing.

“I only wore bonnets when I started chemo. Before that, I never needed to cover up. If you’d really been there—or paid attention—you would’ve known that.”

“Alright, I'm sorry. And thank you. For letting me in tonight. For not slamming the door in my face earlier. For listening. You didn’t have to. You’ve always been kind, even now.”

"Wouldn't hurt you if you'd be too, even for a day."

I watched as his eyebrows twitched and his expression show a sign of disbelief.

"I have always been kind to you. Even coming here, leaving my cases in the office to apologize and make it up to you."

“Kind,” I echoed, crossing my arms. “You call this kindness?”

His smile faltered.

“You show up past midnight, try to make amends with tea and flattery, then push past boundaries I didn’t give you permission to cross. And now you’re trying to be grateful… so what? To guilt me into being gracious?”

His expression hardened slightly. “No, Isabelle. That’s not what I meant—”

“I don’t care what you meant. I care about what you did. I’m tired, Marco. Tired of being polite when I’m uncomfortable. Tired of you saying you care while constantly making it about you.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue. Defend himself. Justify. But I raised a hand before he could speak.

“You weren’t there when I needed you. You didn’t ask how I was. You assumed. You interpreted things your way. You built some fantasy around us, and now you’re upset it didn’t play out.”

“I just miss how it used to be,” he said, more forcefully this time.

I exhaled hard through my nose, irritation sparking in my chest.

“And I miss who I used to be,” I snapped. “But she’s gone, Marco. She’s gone because of the months I spent fighting to stay alive while people like you moved on because it was too inconvenient to stay.”

His jaw clenched. “You think that’s fair?”

“No,” I said coldly. “I think it’s honest.”

A thick silence hung between us, heavy with things unsaid.

But then I saw it—the defensiveness draining from his posture. A flicker of something softer behind his eyes. Maybe guilt. Maybe understanding.

I didn’t care anymore.

I let out a long, calming breath and stepped back.

“No more midnight visits. No more apologies wrapped in expectations. Goodnight, Marco.”

Before he could say anything else, I closed the door—not with a slam, not with a whisper. Just with the quiet finality of a woman who had chosen peace over explaining herself again.

Inside, I leaned my forehead against the door, chest rising and falling.

Then I walked to the table, removed the wig, and placed it back beside the lamp. My scalp sighed in relief.

I was alone.

But I was still standing.

Then—

Another knock.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Just… again.

I stared at the door.

No. Not again.